Wingéd birds of time fly on,
Fly to the rising sun and turning back at dusk:
A long journey it seems to reach back at starting point
Wingéd birds, time’s creatures, fly on.
I, that am, forever still, know –
Of no journey’s start nor end nor flight.
You, outspanning wings, measuring the sky,
Swift and slow, slow and swift,
Smiling at the wingless snail treasuring earth;
Both, in smog or dirt, in motion bound.
I, that am, forever still, know –
Of no measure, nor motion, neither doing’s undoing.
Bewildered you in your wingédness, the wingless too –
Chained by grooves of motion’s air and earth –
Tossed and twirled and set afire, seemingly so new:
To fly on, to plod on, through many a life and birth.
I, that am, forever still, know –
Of no air, nor earth, nor life or death, still ever new.
My Lord, help me free myself
From the web that strangles me.
I’ve spun and spun but to find
A strange bondage that baffles me.
My Lord in your mercy you throw yourself
Between spear and shield –
You get wounded by my possession
To show how life to love must yield.
You came from the vast blue skies
To peer into my own little blue eyes
And said: Stop loving the fleshy dead
On which termites are fearfully fed.
You said love more and more, forever more
Not in possession which ends in woe
But in the spirit’s light of timeless yore
Nestle in the nest, but fly as the crow.
Possess not and be you not possessed
For naught is yours. Be ever blessed
In knowing this. For man in love dressed
Forsakes, yet loves. That soul feels freedom’s rest.
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